


Alouette

by sleepyowlet



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Crack, F/M, Humor, Illustrated, Melancholy, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:04:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepyowlet/pseuds/sleepyowlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loghain goes on a diplomatic mission to Orlais with Maric. He meets an interesting woman. Stuff happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which he meets the Empress and has a lark

**Author's Note:**

> Babblerama: Did it seem to you too like Loghain was much too happy in his cameo in Awakening? He is being sent to Orlais. Orlais!!! I started thinking...  
> Also an answer to the CM “The Impossible” challenge.  
> By the way – the hunt wasn't born from my sick brain, this was actually a pretty popular past-time in the 17th /18th Century in continental Europe. The buildings I described did actually exist – and one of the most famous is still there – just google “Dresdner Zwinger”, and you'll see what I mean.

**Alouette – Chapter One: In which he meets the Empress and has a lark**

 

by sleepyowlet

 

    “ _Alouette, gentille Alouette_
    _Alouette, je te plumerai...”_
     (trad. Canadian children's song)

 

The Road to Val Royeaux was a long one, but the Maker had favoured the royal entourage with lovely weather; so at least Loghain wasn't wet _and_ miserable. The Orlesians had continuously moaned about the ugliness of the Ferelden landscape, the rain and the mud, but Loghain noted that Orlais didn't look much different from his homeland; it had the same woods and meadows with the occasional river or pond. What he did notice, however, were the faces of the peasants working the fields. Where the inhabitants of Ferelden showed various degrees of grumpiness, the Orlesian farmers and other small-folk looked fearful, discretely waving their women and children away to hide inside their houses. Loghain discounted the thought that this was because they were foreigners, the silent communication and swift execution looked too practised. They were afraid of anyone resembling a noble.

His suspicion was confirmed when he courteously thanked a serving girl in a tavern for bringing him food – and the girl blanched and hurried away, not to be seen again. He had felt sick with revulsion when he had realized that she had reacted to his plate-armour. The rumours about the despicable treatment of the common folk by the Chevalier seemed to be true, all of them. He changed into his second set of armour after that, a sturdy work by dwarven smiths that didn't elicit such reactions, only donning his Chevalier plate when they were about to enter Val Royeaux weeks later.

His first impression of the Empress was not a favourable one. She stepped down from her throne to meet them, her lackeys gathered around her, fawning and prostrating themselves while she looked on, unconcerned. No self-respecting Arl or Bann would behave like the so called Orlesian nobility did. The woman was stuffed into a dress so burdened with gemstones and pearls that he wondered how she was able to walk at all, her face was covered in a thick layer of white paint that made it hard to actually see her features, fake lashes covered her eyes and made it impossible to read them. Her hair glittered with jewels and gold dust, and he shuddered in revulsion when her painted lips drew themselves into a smile.

“King Maric! Welcome to Val Royeaux. It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

Maric sketched a bow and answered with his usual easy smile on his face.

“Your Majesty, I'm afraid the descriptions I have heard do not do your beauty justice.”

The Empress laughed and Loghain was reminded of clinking glass, cold and brittle.

“And you are just as charming as the people say. Tell me, how do you like my city?”

And so they continued, and Loghain let his attention wander away from them to the other occupants in the audience hall, especially taking note of the guards and their position, already planning where to attack, should things get ugly.

A discrete elbow nudging at the side of his cuirass brought his attention back to the conversation.

“Yes, this is Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir,” Maric said, the amusement in his voice unmistakably.

Loghain said nothing, only gave the woman gawking at him a terse nod.

The empress just laughed and fluttered her fan.

“I see his reputation as a grim, taciturn man is well deserved,” she tittered and waved at one of her attendants.

“Come, there is a feast waiting in your honour. Let us make merry and forget the dreary world for a while.”

Loghain suppressed a grimace and followed his King and best friend, carefully keeping an eye on their surroundings. This was going to be a long evening.

 

...

 

 

Loghain rose early in the next morning and had a servant show him to the practice grounds. The palace seemed deserted which didn't surprise him, most participants of last night's banquet had been deep into their cups and were probably sleeping off their hangovers. Loghain himself had carefully stayed sober – it wouldn't do to be drunk out of ones skull in enemy territory. Maric, unfortunately, didn't hold the same opinion.

Only a few guards were sparring when he arrived in the ostentatious courtyard, with a couple more using the practice-dummies. Loghain watched for a moment, whatever could be said about them, these guards were in fine shape. Shrugging to himself he warmed up and chose a dummy for himself.

A few minutes later he saw someone approaching him from the corner of his eye, so he turned around to face the newcomer, a woman in a set of chain-mail.

“Yes,” he prompted her tersely.

“I was wondering if you might spar with me, Your Grace,” she said in a melodious, deep voice that had, of course, that irritating accent.

“There are plenty of guards about. Ask one of them,” he growled ungraciously, and turned back to his dummy.

“I could, but they always go easy on me. Should I really encounter an enemy... and you have a reputation for being quite fearsome and merciless.”

Loghain turned back around and sneered at the woman. So she wanted to test her mettle against him? Perhaps it would be amusing to show this Orlesian chit what it would be like to fight a Fereldan.

“Very well. Let's start then.”

The silly goose had the gall to grin at him, drew her sword and raised her shield.

He had her disarmed and on her back with his sword at her throat within moments.

“Pathetic,” he spat, taking a step back and waiting until she had gotten to her feet again.

She wasn't smiling any more, her mouth was set in a grim line now, but she bravely faced him again. He trounced her again and again, sneering at her, but she always came back with the kind of dogged determination he associated more with Fereldans than Orlesians. So he relented a little and started giving her hints, nodding in approval when she took them.

“Hold, please,” she finally panted, her face a deep red.

“Not used to this kind of exertion, are you,” he mocked her, but she only smiled.

“No, I'm not. But I'd say that it is more my teacher's fault than mine. In Orlais it is very difficult to to be taken seriously as a woman who wants to fight in my position. So they talk down at me and coddle me ... and I don't really learn anything. Thank you for not doing that,” she said, gave him a curt bow and left the hall. Some of the guards were looking at him very strangely, but he didn't pay them any heed.

The day was spent in various past-times the Empress thought up, and Loghain came to despise the woman more and more. Maric was quite happy to let himself be entertained, and seemed to enjoy not having to take care of a whole kingdom for once. Not that Loghain couldn't understand him, he was quite glad that he didn't have to oversee field maneuvres right now – as much as he liked being a soldier, sleeping in a small tent for weeks wasn't exactly his favourite. He could take a load of servants with him, of course, but he preferred not to ask his men to endure things that he wasn't ready to endure along with them. So he spent most of his time watching Maric, even though that was hardly necessary. He seemed like a charming, gullible fool, but Loghain knew that there was a shrewd mind behind the easy smile, and that he wouldn't be taken in by glittering things and hollow words.

He went back to the practise grounds the next morning, and there she was again, the woman who had asked him to spar.

She gave him a wave, and bounded over to him like an overeager puppy. She still carried her helmet and arming cap in the crook of her arm, and Loghain could see her face more clearly this time. Her hair was of an indefinite, mousy colour and tightly woven around her head in a braid. Her face was a little too irregular to be called beautiful, with her eyes wide-set, green, and luminous, a long nose and a too big mouth. The face of a horse, he thought uncharitably, and greeted her with a nod.

“I'd like another lesson, if you don't mind,” she said, tilting her head to one side.

“You never told me your name,” he said in return, reaching for his shield that was slung across his back.

“You never asked,” she replied with a smile that showed teeth that were slightly irregular like the rest of her features.

“Well?” he prompted her, becoming impatient with her facetiousness.

“Alouette. They call me Alouette.”

“Very well, Alouette,” he said, his tongue having difficulties to wrap itself around those foreign syllables. “Let us begin.”

So they did, and somehow it almost felt like training a young recruit, even though this woman wasn't very young, he thought, remembering the dainty creases next to her mouth that deepened whenever she smiled.

When she called out for him to stop, she gave him a long, considering glance.

“I'd like to thank you for your time, somehow, Your Grace. So I would like to show you something in return, if you are willing.”

Loghain slung his shield on his back and crossed his arms over his chest.

“And what would that be?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Val Royeaux,” Alouette said, “but not what you have seen so far. I'd like to show you what strangers usually don't see, I'd like to show you what my city is really like.”

Loghain nodded slowly. Knowledge like that might come in handy, and if she planned something crooked, he'd be able to take care of himself.

“Good, meet me here at dawn tomorrow, and don't wear that heavy plate. Too conspicuous.”

“Very well,” he said and they parted ways.

This afternoon the Empress invited them to a hunt. If this travesty he was forced to witness could be called that. The nobility met in a big courtyard that he was told was built exclusively for this purpose, decorated with lovely fountains, planted with quaint little hedges and stubs they called trees. Then they were issued weapons, dainty bows and crossbows. And then, wild animals were driven into the courtyard, where they stood, confused, panicked, tired in the unforgiving afternoon sun and were shot at. Loghain was beyond disgusted, and considered not participating in this abomination – but then he looked at the pitiful creatures, bucks and fawns, mostly, and in quick succession emptied his quiver and gave them a quick, merciful death.

He was only half listening when the Empress gushed her approval – he was too busy staring at the blood seeping into colour coordinated gravel and keeping himself from wringing her scrawny neck.

 

...

 

 

Alouette met him at dawn dressed in simple leathers, as was he. Loghain shifted a little uncomfortably under her appraising gaze before returning it. She had a lovely figure out of armour, but she looked pale and tired; dark shadows were beneath her eyes, but she shrugged him off when he commented on it, saying that she had simply had a long night.

She led him out of the palace via a servant's entrance, and off they were through the winding roads and alleyways of Val Royeaux.

A snarled command, and Alouette was pushed into him, and he had to grip her waist to keep her from falling.

“What the...” he bristled, but she clapped a hand over his mouth and shushed him.

“Don't. We are dressed like simple folk, so we get treated accordingly. That was a Chevalier – they can do whatever they like to the people.”

“I remember how they treated mine,” Loghain snarled and released her.

“I assure you, they don't threat theirs any differently.”

They moved on, until Loghain found himself in an overgrown roof-garden with a great view over a market place.

“Now look, Your Grace, look at them. This is my Val Royeaux. Husbands, wives, children. Selling, buying, playing, simple everyday life. That is what I wanted to show you. These are the people of Orlais, not the nobles, not the Chevalier. Them.”

Loghain looked at the scene below and had to admit, if there hadn't been the occasional shout in Orlesian, that he could almost believe that he was back home in Denerim.

“Where exactly are we?” he asked to change the focus of their conversation.

Alouette sighed, shook her head and let herself fall back into the soft grass.

Loghain had to stretch out beside her to hear her answer.

“This house belonged to my grandfather. After he died... I lived in it for a few years, but now I don't really have a use for it any more. The family was a little upset, but there was nothing they could do about me inheriting it... I've always been his favourite.”

“You miss him.”

“Yes, I still do. He taught me a lot... and he always told me about Ferelden.”

Loghain snorted.

“About the rain and the mud, no doubt; and her uncivilized, barbaric people,” he said bitterly.

Alouette shook her head.

“No. About the wild beauty of your land, the mountains and the forests. He told me that the people of your land were harsh but honest, and that they, even some of the nobles, still had a connection to their soil that we seem to have lost a long time ago. He always spoke fondly of Ferelden, said that instead of trying to make you like Orlesians, we should perhaps try to become a little more like you. Or that we should leave you alone.”

Loghain couldn't help but laugh.

“Indeed. And I'm supposed to believe that story? A laudable performance, my dear, but I'm not fooled.”

Alouette sat up, her face pale and her lips pressed together into a thin white line.

“There is a little bird on your left vambrace, isn't there? It looks as if a child has drawn it, and if you lift your shield, it's in a perfect position to be seen by you.”

She jumped to her feet and started to pace.

“Florian knew about his views, since my grandfather was quite vocal about them. So he decided to punish him by giving him command of the Chevalier reinforcements sent to eradicate what he termed this 'pitiful, dirty, little rebellion'. My grandfather had no choice but to obey. He always called me Alouette, which means lark in your language, so I drew him a little bird, which he had etched into his vambrace.”

She took a deep breath and stilled, looking down on him with a furious expression on her face.

“I wanted to know if his armour was now worn by a man as good as him,” she said, her voice cutting like a knife,” but it seems that is not so. You, for all your achievements and titles, are not half the man he used to be, you are not able to see what's right in front of your nose, and you are not able to overcome simple prejudice.”

Loghain couldn't say who pounced first, but a moment later their limbs were entangled in the grass, hands urgently pulling at clothes. There was no sound but their own laboured breathing, the distant murmurs of the crowd and the chirping of insects in the fragrant grass.

There was a long, white neck bared in front of him and he bit it, wrestling the woman in his arms on her back; she in turn drove her fingernails into his shoulders. Every piece that came into view, lovely and luminous in the sun, he marked with his teeth – breast, abdomen, thighs – but when he was finally faced with a thatch of daintily trimmed brown curls he gentled, and substituted teeth with tongue.

He kept his mouth on hers when he finally drove into her, swallowing every moan and cry as he took her harshly, without much consideration in the grass of her beloved grandfather's home.

He was a little shocked at himself as they lay together afterwards – he had always been a gentle lover, had never treated a woman that way.

He turned his head to her to apologize, but when his eyes met hers, that brilliant green was full of laughter.

“Maybe my unenlightened fellow countrymen are right; you Fereldans are brutes.”

He shook his head with a rueful smile and proceeded to prove to her that he was not, before insisting that they returned to the palace. He didn't want to leave his best friend alone at the tender mercies of the Empress longer than necessary after all.

He needn't have bothered, Her Majesty had been indisposed all day.


	2. In which the lark finally sings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Babblerama: Is it just me or is this a bit different from the rest of my stuff style-wise? I find it pretty strange, but the story wanted to be written that way. ;)  
> My thanks to Morwen33 for helping me sort out the horsey bits. I don't know much about horses.

**Alouette – Chapter Two: In which the lark finally sings**

 

“ _Ahi Amours com dure departie_

_Me convendra faire de la meillour_

_Qui onques fust amee ne servie_

_Deus me ramaint a li par sa doucour_

_Si voirement que m'en part a dolour_

_Las! qu'ai je dit? Ja ne m'en part je mie_

_Se li cors vait servir nostre Seignour_

_Li cuers remaint du tout en sa baillie. **”**_

Conon de Bethune, ca. 1190

 

_(“Ah, love! How hard it will be to part,_

_As I must, from the finest woman_

_Who was ever loved and served._

_May God in his goodness bring me back to her_

_As surely as I part in sorrow._

_But what have I said? This is no parting_

_Though my body goes off to serve our Lord,_

_My heart remains here, ruled by her.”_

translation by Rosenberg _)_

 

The negotiations started in earnest the next day, the last of the guild-masters, and the most influential merchants and nobles finally having arrived. The Orlesians had always been very interested in the superior timber that came from his own Teyrnir, as well as the salt mined in that region. Also, Orzammar's portal to the surface was on Ferelden soil, and many a merchant would love tax-free trade with the dwarves – but these taxes were one of Ferelden's most important sources of income, a fact of which Maric was well aware too; so he gave them sunny smiles and not an inch on that particular point. He did, however, offer them access to Ferelden ports at a much reduced cost, an offer the merchants gladly accepted. Loghain hid a grin, little did they know that this offer had also been extended to the Antivans – the free cities, especially Kirkwall, would lose quite a bit of profit, if the plan worked, with Amaranthine and Denerim becoming the major trade-hubs in the Waking Sea. They did, however draw the line at trading slaves – Kirkwall was welcome to keep the monopoly for that distasteful business.

So the mornings were filled with haggling with Orlesians, and the evenings were spent in entertainment with the Empress, so Loghain had no opportunity to meet with Alouette again. It was a shame too, her company had been so wonderfully different than that of the masked and painted lords of this land.

 

...

 

Loghain almost opened her throat with the dagger he kept beneath his pillow when she crept into his room in the middle of the night.

He removed the blade from where it touched her skin and put it back to where it had been before, waiting for her to speak. She didn't, just let her wrapper and shift fall to the floor and stood in the moonlight for a moment, her skin strangely luminous. Her hair seemed almost black in the darkness, and he realized that he had never seen it down before. It was long, very long, and made her seem very vulnerable and fragile.

Alouette joined him on the bed and bent down to kiss him, her hair falling around them like a curtain. A fragrant oil made her skin incredibly soft, and he couldn't get enough of touching it, touching her in all those places he remembered that made her sigh and press herself close to him. He knelt and she straddled him; then they bucked and writhed together in the cool quiet of the night.

When Loghain woke in the next morning she was gone like a dream, the only thing left was her scent. It had been quite some time since he'd had a lover; he'd almost forgotten how nice it was to wake up feeling languid and relaxed after making love the night before.

He smiled to himself. What would Maric say if he knew that a beautiful Orlesian nymph had danced into his room on a moonbeam and had brought him so much pleasure?

He dressed, had some breakfast, and went to endure another day of endless haggling over taxes, and fees, and exchange rates, trying to put the night before out of his mind.

And so it continued; he spend the days negotiating, and the nights in the arms of his lover. She never complained that he didn't have more time for her, they both relished in every minute they had together. It was as if they understood each other without words sometimes; their language consisting only of mouths and fingers trailing over flushed skin. In other nights they lay in each others arms, whispering, telling each other about all those small inconsequential things that made up a life.

It did occur to him that she might be a spy or a bard, but she never asked any suspicious questions, only about life in Ferelden sometimes. It didn't make sense, and he couldn't help but wonder why she came to him again and again.

 

...

 

The Empress had a headache about a week later and needed to retire, so he had the rest of the day to himself. Not feeling like braving the training grounds in the middle of the day, he retreated to his room and settled in a spindly armchair with a book. It was in Orlesian, of course, but his knowledge of the tongue was sufficient enough, even though he absolutely refused to utter as much as one word in it.

A knock on the door drew his mind away from reading about Chevalier traditions, and he closed the book with a sigh.

“Yes,” he called out, his voice terse.

Alouette slipped into his room, her wide mouth drawn into a conspirational grin.

“I just heard that the rest of today's meeting has been called off. How about we go hunting? In a real forest?”

“Came prepared, did you?” he teased, and held out a hand to her.

Alouette put aside her pack and the bow and quiver she was carrying, and went to him to sit in his lap.

“Of course. Isn't that that a good thing?”

“A very good thing,” he purred and drew her in for a kiss.

She laughed and extracted herself from him.

“If we continue like that, we'll never make it to the forest!”

And as much as he would have liked to simply throw her onto his bed to have his wicked way with her, the thought of escaping the palace and the city for a while was too much of a temptation.

“That would be a shame. Show me that bow.”

It was a simple weapon, but well made and well kept. The string that was wrapped about the shaft was quite new, but showed some signs of use, as did the bow itself. He unwrapped the string and put it into place, then drew it back. The bow creaked quietly and curved, and though it took less force to draw it than his own, it was a bow that needed regular practice to handle. He nodded to himself and loosened the string again.

“Good quality. How did you come by it?” he asked, handing it back to her.

“My grandfather again. He spoiled me terribly, or I would never have been allowed to even touch a weapon. He had a bow made that I could use as long as I was a child, but this one was for when I was grown up. When the news arrived that he had died, I took it and hid it among my clothes. They wouldn't have given it to me. And it wasn't really stealing, no? The bow was meant to be mine.”

Loghain smirked at the mulish look on her face and shook his head.

“Have a seat, My Lady, while I get dressed.”

He got out of the finery that Maric had made him wear, and dressed in a simple shirt and leather jerkin, breeches and boots. He had brought his own bow with him; he sometimes liked to join the men hunting when travelling.

“Shall we take some hounds?” Alouette asked when they left his quarters and made their way to the stable.

“No need. I know the insipid creatures you Orlesians call hounds – we're better off without them,” he said, waving her off.

“Have it your way,” Alouette replied, sounding slightly miffed.

Loghain chuckled and shot her an unrepentant grin.

“Everyone knows that our dogs are far superior. So superior, in fact, that they absolutely refuse to breed with yours,” he said, his voice and smile grim as he thought of his beloved Adalla.

Alouette just looked at him pensively.

“There is a story there.”

“Yes,” Loghain said with a nod, “There is. And it's not a happy one.”

“It's not?” Alouette asked.

“No. There are Orlesians in it. Now where did they put my charger...”

His horse turned up soon enough and looked quite content, its chestnut coat gleaming.

“Hello, Avenger,” he greeted it and ran his hand along its nose, then checked all the straps holding the saddle, before methodically undoing and redoing them all himself under the worried gaze of the nervous stable-boy. He didn't trust the Orlesians to get anything right, besides, Avenger had a way of holding his breath when the girth was fastened, and if this particular strap wasn't correctly done, the saddle would come loose.

“Avenger?” Alouette chortled, pausing in checking the tack of her own horse.

“Maric gave him to me, and he also named him,” he grumbled. He thought the name extremely silly as well, and he suspected that was why Maric had given that particular one to the horse.

The stable-boy bowed and hurried off, leaving them to mount their horses.

Alouette rode a delicate palfrey, a mount much better suited to hunting than his own charger; but he didn't want to ride a horse he didn't know in a land he didn't trust the stable-hands as far as he could throw them.

“You call your king by his name?”

“In private, yes. He's my friend. Doesn't anyone call your Empress Celene?”

“No, no one. Perhaps someone should,” Alouette replied thoughtfully.

“I say. That would perhaps help to keep the woman grounded.”

Alouette didn't reply, only shook her head with a bemused expression.

They made their way through the bustling city following the promenade; and it took about an hour to reach the woods once they had left Val Royeaux behind. The clean, fragrant air of the forest was a balm on Loghain's soul, and he closed his eyes for a moment and imagined himself back home.

They left the horses in the shade of some weeping willows at the edge of a pond and went into the forest. Loghain didn't expect them to actually make a catch, but it was fun to teach the skills his father had taught him to someone who appreciated them. It was terribly obvious that Alouette didn't know much about the wilds or hunting; so he showed her what to look for, how to recognize the footprints animals left, where they had nibbled at the bushes or rubbed against tree bark, where they come more than once and left a trail.

They did see a doe and her half-grown fawn, but neither of them felt like shooting it; so they simply crouched in the bushes and watched them.

They returned to the horses soon after and shared the meal Alouette had brought. She fed him bits and pieces of various delicacies, and he found that the soft, white cream-cheese tasted best if licked off Alouette's skin. They made love lazily in the sun-dappled grass, the forest peaceful and sleepy around them.

“How do you know so much about surviving in the wilds?” she asked him when they had uncurled from each other and shared a drink afterwards.

Loghain snorted.

“What do you think? The Rebel Army had to live off the land more often than not, so these skills were necessary. Before that... how much do you actually know about me?”

Alouette shrugged.

“That you are a commoner who was elevated to noble rank for leading the Rebel Army. The Chevalier and many nobles still curse your name, and if you listen to their wives, you'd get the impression that you had Orlesian children for breakfast.”

Loghain snorted and clapped his hand in front of his mouth to prevent himself from spewing watered down wine everywhere.

“ _What?_ ” he barked, laughter in his voice.

“Oh yes. You can rest assured that you are quite feared and hated. So, how much is the truth?”

“Oh, you've been right about most things, they are common knowledge. Apart from my dietary habits; I found Orlesian children much too bland for my taste,” Loghain drawled, and ducked when she threw a piece of bread at him.

“My father taught me,” he finally answered her original question, his mood changing. “We were driven off our lands, and we ... lost mother in the process. So it was the two of us for a while, until others joined us. We lived as outlaws for years, always moving from one part of Ferelden to another.”

“What happened then?”

Loghain smirked wryly.

“Maric happened. He stumbled right into my arms, so to speak, and after a while I eventually joined the rebels. And then ... I did everything I could to one day see my Ferelden as a free country once more. And now it is.”

Alouette sighed, and stared into space with a wistful expression.

“I wish I could see it. Just once.”

“Come with me, then,” Loghain said impulsively.

“I can't,” she replied quietly, lowering her head.

“Why not? You're not married, are you?”, he asked, realizing how little he knew about her present life.

“No, I'm not.”

“What is keeping you here, then? A guardian?”

Alouette shook her head.

“No, not one of those either. Duty. Duty keeps me here.” she said and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, this is such a mess. When I decided to seduce you I was just curious; I didn't expect to actually like you.”

Loghain didn't say anything, just raised an eyebrow at her.

“And now you're asking me to come with you ... and I can't think of anything I'd love to do more. But I can't,” Alouette cried, throwing her hands up, her accent becoming more pronounced in her agitation.

“Why?” Loghain asked quietly.

Alouette took a deep breath and faced him, her green cats-eyes meeting his unflinchingly.

“I have told you many things about me. They're all true, I only lied about one thing, and that is my name. Well, I actually didn't, I told you that Alouette is only a nickname ... and you didn't ask for my real name.”

“Tell me then, what is your real name?” Loghain demanded.

“Celene. My name is Celene. I'm the Empress of Orlais,” she answered flatly.

The pieces of the puzzle fell into place in Loghain's mind. Of course... he had only ever seen one of the two, and when he'd been with Alouette, Her Majesty had been indisposed, and nobody else had seen her either. It had been easy to miss, because of the court being so busy, but when he thought about it now...

“To think that I'd been concerned about you being a bard,” he hissed.

“I am sorry, Loghain. I never meant for this to go this far. But I couldn't resist, I had to see you again,” Celene said sadly, her head bent.

Loghain found himself unable to speak, his fury choking anything he might have said, so he reached for his clothes and got dressed.

“Loghain, please! I'm the same woman I was before. I'm forced to wear a mask every minute of every day; and with you I could be myself again. I had almost forgotten what that feels like,” she begged, scrambling to get into her own clothes.

Loghain didn't reply, and she fell silent too. They made their way back to the City without uttering one word, and as they parted ways he still didn't say anything, unable to even look at her.

 

...

 

Now that he knew, Loghain noticed traces of Alouette in the Empress. The way she tilted her head when she enquired something, the minuscule twitch of the right corner of her mouth when she found something amusing and tried not to show it, the tone of her voice when she tried to convince someone to see things her way.

He recognized Alouette's face beneath Celene's mask of cosmetics; where the paint corrected the wide mouth, and how the fake lashes disguised any expression in her green eyes. How her soft hair was rigorously forced into shape and weighted down with oils and gold-dust.

It made him sad.

Their manner of interaction didn't change, she treated him with cool courtesy, he treated her with barely concealed contempt.

His nights were lonely without her, and the days dragged on endlessly without her company to look forward to. He missed her body next to his, but he missed her wit and curiosity even more. He should have turned her away the very first day on the practice-grounds, he thought. He should have never let her get under his skin.

But he _had_ let her, and under his skin she still resided; precariously close to his heart, he found.

He also discovered that what she did made sense in context of what she had told him. She was concerned about her people, but she didn't wish any ill on Ferelden either. What he had thought capricious and foolish was actually her trying to keep the more hostile elements of her court in check, disguising her machinations as female whims. And somehow the nobles of Orlais found it easier to comply with wishes when they thought she was just being whimsical. This was expected of a woman, after all. Sometimes she tittered, then snapped at some poor fellow the next moment, all part of the game she played. A game she had said she was utterly sick of.

He held out another week, but the day before the scheduled departure of Maric's entourage he felt like there were still some things unsaid that shouldn't be.

He requested a private audience with the Empress in the morning, and he busied himself with preparing for travel to take his mind of the fact that she didn't send a reply.

He was actually preparing for bed when she finally sent for him, and he had a few choice words for her running through his mind as he hastily dressed in the garments he had discarded moments ago.

He was led through a maze of corridors to a gilded door, which immediately opened to allow him entrance.

The Empress sat on an elegantly curved chair in front of an elaborate vanity with several mirrors, surrounded by a few of her ladies. The jewel-encrusted dress she had worn that day was on a mannequin nearby, and she was clothed in a robe that covered her stays and petticoats. As soon as she noticed him, she sent the ladies away with an impatient wave of her hand.

One of them, a shapely blonde, had the nerve to giggle when she passed him, but sobered quickly (blanching) when he shot her an icy glare.

“Won't they talk?” he asked tersely when they were finally alone.

The Empress shrugged.

“They know better. But even if, the people at court would only assume that I tried to seduce Ferelden's Watchdog for my own ends. When it comes to Orlesian politics these things are expected.”

She still wore the elaborate coiffure and her make-up; the mask was still in place. But now she reached for a cloth and dipped it into a jar which contained some sort of grease. As she dragged the cloth over her face, wiping away the thick layer of paint, he wondered if she had called him into her chambers at this hour so he would be witness to her transformation from Empress to woman.

“You asked to see me,” she said flatly, her voice interrupting his thoughts.

“Yes. I came to tell you that I do understand why you thought the deception was necessary. And perhaps it was. I came to tell you that you have my forgiveness. And I ask for yours.”

The Empress wiped the cloth over her face a last time, her face now free of cosmetics.

“You have it. I do understand why you were angry at me. To be quite honest, I didn't expect to see you again.”

Loghain smiled ruefully and shook his head.

“Alouette came to mean too much to me. She is more than the Empress.”

Reaching for another cloth and some soap the monarch in question washed the grease off her face with water from a golden basin standing on the vanity.

“And you are more than Ferelden's Watchdog. I will always remember that; I hope you will too.”

They were both silent for a while, and Celene dried her face and moved on to her hair. It was obvious that this was a task she usually left to others, she had difficulties taking the elaborate up-do apart. So Loghain took a few steps closer, gently batted her hands away, and helped her. It was easier for him, since he could actually see what he was doing. His fingers moved through her hair methodically, and the pile of bejewelled ornaments grew on the vanity.

Finally her hair was down, and he reached for a brush to comb the gold-dust out. It already covered his hands, and he wondered for a moment what it would look like, glittering on the pale skin of her breasts and stomach.

They both knew that he wouldn't spend the night, but it was nice to pretend for a moment. She stood and led him to a couch where he pulled her into his arms and finally told her the story of Adalla, the Mabari he once had, and who was taken away from him by an Orlesian lord. How she had finally returned, only to die in his arms. She told him how the last emperor had treated her when he had chosen her as his successor, how he had had her best friend killed to teach her that she could never become attached to another person.

They shared one last kiss that was in equal parts sweet and sad, and Loghain whispered one last sentence against her lips, before going back to his quarters.

“Good bye, Celene.”

 


	3. Epilogue: In which the hero returns to his lark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Babblerama: So this is, in the end, why Loghain is so chipper in Awakening! :P

**Alouette – Epilogue: In which the hero returns to his lark.**

 

_J'ai traversé les plaines et les montagnes,_   
_J'ai entendu le rossignol chanter,_   
_Qui disait dans son charmant language,_   
_Les amoureux sont toujours malheureux._

_Allez y donc, ma charmante est mignonne,_   
_Allez y donc, d'amour nous parlerons._   
_Allez y donc, ma charmante est mignonne,_   
_Allez y donc, d'amour nous parlerons._

(Die Streuner, “Allez Y Donc”)

 

( _I crossed the plains and mountains,_  
 _I heard the nightingale sing_  
 _Who said in its charming language,_  
 _Lovers are always unhappy._

  
_Go ahead then, my charming one is lovely_   
_Go ahead then, we will speak of love._   
_Go ahead then, my charming one is lovely_   
_Go ahead then, we will speak of love._

Translation by google and me ._.)

 

Avenger lazily ambled along the sunny road towards the next stop on their long journey. They had made good time, and the next inn was just an hour away. He was bound for Orlais, a country he had never thought to set foot in again. Yet here he was.

The Fereldan Warden Commander, Angus Cousland, had been quite confused as to why he was in such a good mood at the prospect of going to the country he hated. They had become friends in the last months, somewhere between killing the Archdemon and mopping up left-over Darkspawn near Denerim and in the south. So when he had breezed into the room and happily informed his (former) commander that he was going to Montsimmard, the man had been quite alarmed; had even offered to write to the First Warden asking him to change his mind.

Loghain had told him not to bother. The answer to this conundrum was a second letter he had received, a letter that he had told no one about. Smiling to himself, he reached into his gauntlet and pulled it out, the fine vellum dog-eared and creased, showing that he had read it many times already.

 

“ _My dear Watchdog,”_

 

He had let out a bark of laughter when he had read this particular salutation. The irony had not escaped him.

 

“ _I hope this letter finds you well, and that you will forgive my rather high-handed meddling. By now you should have gotten your orders to go to Montsimmard and join the Grey Wardens there. I fear for your safety in Ferelden, there are too many who wish to see you dead. You will be better off in Orlais, under my protection. I know that this rankles you, since you are more accustomed to protecting than being protected, but please indulge me in this. I do not wish to see you come to harm.”_

 

He should have known that it had been her machinations that had resulted in his orders. As much as he had grumbled at first, he had to agree – he did need protection. Not that he thought he deserved it – but for his daughter's sake. It would upset her very much, if he was found lying in a ditch somewhere. Besides, he did want to see his grandchildren, if at all possible.

 

“ _I do hope that your daughter, the Queen, has told you of my part of the scheme concerning King Cailan. I swear, I never meant to go through with this ridiculous idea. The nobles of my land would accept much, but not this. They'd never stand for a Fereldan Emperor. It was all a ruse to call out those who would see your daughter destroyed. The queen is a formidable woman (you raised her well), and she trusted me. It pains me that you could not do the same, but I do understand. Perhaps one day you will tell me what it was that made you hate us so much.”_

 

In hindsight it had been rather obvious, and he did feel a little stupid. A dog-lord as Emperor? What had Cailan been thinking?

Loghain shook his head sadly. He had been blinded by his fears, and by his hatred. He had been ready to jump to conclusions and to believe the worst of Celene in a heartbeat.

Yet, he couldn't regret his decision to deny the Chevaliers entry. Even if they had strict orders only to help, there was no guarantee that they would have obeyed. It was more than likely that they would have conquered the war-torn Ferelden and presented Celene with a fait-accompli – and she would have had to accept it, or lose the support of the army and most of the nobles.

 

“ _I will meet you in Montsimmard, and, if you are agreeable, we will continue to Val Royeaux from there. Warden Commander Ivo wasn't too keen to have you underfoot, so I offered to take you off his hands (and out of his hair – alas, he doesn't have that much left), and make you the official liaison for the Grey Wardens at my court. I'm afraid that won't keep you busy, but I'm sure you will find something to occupy your time with. Terrorizing my nobles comes to mind.”_

 

The first part of the letter had been quite formal, but here she had slipped a little, and he could hear the voice of his Alouette and her particular brand of teasing humour. He didn't much relish the thought of being gawked at in Val Royeaux, but he was being gawked at wherever he went these days. He had killed the Archdemon, after all, poor Angus had been knocked out when he had happened to bash him over the head with his shield in the heat of battle. The young man had refused to let him sacrifice himself, so he had decided to take matters into his own hands.

It hadn't quite worked out as planned – for some reason he had woken up very much not dead after stabbing the damn thing.

 

“ _I do hope that we can have a new start, you and I, even if this hope is probably foolish. I have thought about you often in the recent years, and I missed you very much. You are probably the only man in Thedas who I would consider my equal – and who would not seek to be anything else, who would not try to gain the upper hand and rule me. Please consider my words on your journey here, while I do remain_

 

_Yours,_

 

_Celene”_

 

Loghain smiled to himself. He had spent most of his life serving others, being part of things much greater than himself. He had been ready to finally give his life, but a miracle had happened and he was still among the living, feeling out of place and adrift.

Sometime after the last chat with Angus he had decided that he was ready to retire in peace, and let the world go on as it would. And there were worse places to live out the rest of ones days in than a lavish palace belonging to a woman who loved him, and had the biggest country of Thedas at her feet.

He suddenly felt quite peckish as he rode on, daydreaming about cream-cheese on soft white skin.


End file.
